


Undercurrent

by Elenauial



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elenauial/pseuds/Elenauial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A...a father," he gasped out, his words barely audible and a surprise to even himself. "I'm a father."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undercurrent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xmarisolx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmarisolx/gifts).



> Set four years after the end of season 5.
> 
> I hope I managed to capture the spirit of your request! Enjoy! :)

His name was Benjamin Carlyle. It was going to be a fairly straight-forward kill. Mr. Carlyle was an Alabama resident with a long history of domestic violence when, seven years ago, his wife finally left him and then mysteriously vanished just days later. There wasn't much doubt in anyone's mind what had happened to her, but there was no solid forensic evidence to tie him to the crime and Mr. Carlyle had a decent alibi: there was a hotel room in Miami checked out in his name during the time the murder occurred and a few eyewitnesses thought they had might have seen Benjamin around the Miami area. Though no one could be sure either way, there was reasonable doubt in the jury's minds and Mr. Carlyle was acquitted.

No one on the Miami police force was particularly convinced though, having seen too many times where a long history of violence leads and Dexter in particular was quite certain of Mr. Carlyle's guilt. Which was why, seven years later, Dexter still kept an occasional eye on his credit card purchases. And sure enough, it wasn't in vain: a hotel in Miami had been paid for some time in advance just yesterday. Dexter stared at his laptop screen in contemplation. He would first stake out the hotel to see if Mr. Carlyle was in fact staying there and if not, he would inspect the room for evidence of whether it had been used and then begin his search for definitive proof of the crime. Dexter quickly jotted down the address of the hotel and shut his laptop, surveying the room. It was time to begin preparing breakfast.

Twenty minutes later, Dexter was scooping the last of the pancakes off the griddle and onto a serving plate. Cody was the first to come into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Good morning!" Dexter smiled at the twelve year old boy and handed him a plate with a large stack. Cody was growing nearly every it day, it seemed, as he grew nearer and nearer to becoming a teenager. As Cody began to eat, Dexter headed off to Astor's room, knowing the 16 year old's habit of oversleeping. He knocked loudly.

"Astor, are you awake?" Dexter asked through the door.

"Ugghhh...yes...." came a groggy reply.

Dexter grinned. "Well, you had better get moving, we leave for school in half an hour." Even through the door, Dexter could hear his stepdaughter leap out of bed; lately she had become very insistent that she had to spend long amounts of time doing her hair and make-up before she could be seen in public.

Finally, Dexter headed to the bedroom of his youngest son. Harrison had apparently gotten out of bed without anyone's knowledge, but he had not left his room. Instead, the five year old boy was sitting quietly in his pajamas, coloring at the small table that was in his room. Dexter stood for a moment watching him: the small body covered in bright blue, flannel pajamas, the small head of bright blond curls bent in concentration over his work.

For so many years, Dexter had assumed he would always feel nothing, that he would always feel as though there was an empty space in the place where he was supposed to have a heart. But here, looking at his son, observing the growth he made every day...Dexter could swear he felt a bit of warmth spread across his chest.

"Whatcha doing, buddy?" Dexter finally spoke and Harrison looked up from his work, startled. But a smile soon crossed his face when he looked up at his father.

"I was drawing you a picture, Daddy!" the little boy said with pride, dropping his crayons and holding up the piece of white construction paper. Dexter took it from his small hands and it looked it over.

The letters were crooked and of varying sizes, but the message was still legible, "i LoVe yOu". Underneath the words was a drawing of two figures, one with brown crayon atop with head and a much smaller one with a scribble of yellow for hair.

Dexter kneeled down beside his son. "Is that us?" he gestured to the drawing and his son nodded proudly. Dexter couldn't help but smile and pulled Harrison into a hug. "I love you too," Dexter told him sincerely. "Now are you ready to have some pancakes?"

 

Two hours later, the drawing was fastened to the refrigerator with a magnet, the pancakes were eaten, the kids were all off to school, and Dexter was sitting patiently in his car, observing the outside of Benjamin Carlyle's hotel room. It had been nearly an hour and there was no sign of any activity, but that didn't necessarily mean anything; not everyone on a vacation got up before 10am. But Dexter was fairly certain that this was no ordinary vacation.

He knew, knew better than many, how hard it was to change your nature, how a violent man would certainly almost always be one. How hard it was to ignore that nature of violence inside yourself. Dexter took a sip of his coffee. He would wait, but he was certain Benjamin Carlyle would never show.

After another two hours, as it approached noon and there continued to be no sign of life in the watched room, Dexter grew more and more certain he could move forward with his agenda. Slipping his gloves upon his hands, he pocketed his lock-picking kit and exited the car. There was no use waiting around any longer; he would search the room today.

Surveying the area carefully as he crossed the street to the door, Dexter kept a careful eye out for anyone that might be watching. The area seemed fairly deserted, though Dexter thought he could hear raised voices from the room next door. He paid them no mind though, just made swift work of the lock on Room 17 and opened the door a crack, peering in experimentally, seeing if he had been wrong.

He hadn't: the room was as empty as he had predicted. He stepped inside quickly, shutting the door behind him and flipping on the light switch. Dexter scanned the room. The sheets on the hotel bed were rumpled and a suitcase sat in the corner, but Dexter wasn't entirely convinced.

Walking closer to the bed, Dexter began to observe the sheets more carefully. After a brief inspection, his initial assumption was proved correct: the bed had not been slept in. The comforter and blanket had been rumpled to give the illusion of use, but the bottom sheet had not been touched and the pillows were still perfectly fluffed.

Dexter moved to examine the suitcase. There were several outfits packed, warm clothes typical of a trip to Miami, but all them were still perfectly folded. Dexter looked around the room more carefully; if a man had indeed already spent one night here, he typically would have changed clothes at least once by now. There was no sign of any used clothes anywhere and in the bathroom, the walls of the shower were dry: they had not been used recently.

It was clear that the room was only another alibi, likely for murder once again. Dexter frowned as he began to contemplate how he was going to find concrete evidence of this man's guilt. He would be able to take Carlyle when he came back in town to check out of the room and remove his belongings, but other than a staged hotel room and a gut feeling, Dexter had nothing that said with definite certainty that this man was a murderer.

It was probable the crime had been committed in Alabama, but Dexter was unsure of how he would find the time in the midst of raising three children to travel the 600 miles to where Carlyle lived....

Suddenly, a muffled scream echoed through the walls. Dexter froze. There had been loud voices in the room next door the whole time he had been searching, but busy in his task, he had ignored them. Now, there was silence on the other side of the wall.

Suspicious, Dexter once again unpocketed his picks and set to work on the adjoining door between the two rooms. As to not alert the other room's inhabitants of his presence, Dexter opened the door only a crack as quietly as he could. Even through the crack, he could see enough: a bleeding man, tied to a chair, slumped over and still.

Dexter shut the door as quickly and quietly as possible before pressing his ear against it's closed surface. It was faint, but the man's voice was raised enough for Dexter to just barely make his words out.

"Rodrigo, I need you to get over here now. Garcia wouldn't talk and now I have a mess to clean up and my boat leaves in two hours." A pause. "No, no, no, GET. HERE. NOW."

Then there was silence once again. Dexter contemplated his choices. A man, who was most likely a murderer had checked out this room but was now two states away. Yet just next door, there was a man who was most definitely a murderer, but who was boarding a boat in just hours, most likely heading back to south-eastern Mexico, Dexter guessed, if he was judging the accent correctly.

He needed a kill... and soon. It had been months and he could feel it: the edges of his calm, collected persona were beginning to fray, a persona that was even more important to keep intact now that he was the single parent of three children...

He didn't have all of his tools with him...looking down at his watch, Dexter knew that he probably couldn't get across town and back to collect them before this man had left. He could be leaving the country, could be leaving for good, and Dexter knew nothing about him....

Dexter could feel his heart race, nearly feel the blood pumping faster through his veins...This man was guilty; up to his Code... (After years of amending Harry's Code it had been morphed into something different, to the point which Dexter felt as if it were his own.) If he could take him by surprise, it would be an easy kill and Dexter could have both bodies disposed of by the time he had to pick the kids up from school....

As thoughts rushed through his head, Dexter could feel his control slipping. Carlyle was the closest thing to a kill he had been contemplating, but this man was so near, right here, and all he had to do was open that door once again...

His mind had already been made up. Silently, Dexter slid a long, sharp piece of metal out of his lock-picking kit and slipped it gently into his right hand before positioning his left on the doorknob. Once more, he only pulled it open a crack, surveying the room before he made his move. A man in dark clothing was standing, bent over the body, with his back toward Dexter.

Without a pause, Dexter made his move. In one motion, he pulled open the door with his left hand, as he lunged forward with his right, his weapon held high, aiming for the right side of the man's neck and his jugular vein....

In an instant, everything changed.

Dexter was a mere foot away from his target, when the outer door of the motel swung wide open.

"MANUEL!" a loud voice cried out. Dexter froze. His target turned around. Their eyes only met for a second before Manuel brought his hand around swiftly to the side of Dexter's head and brought the barrel of a small pistol crashing against the side of Dexter's skull.

Everything went black.

 

Dexter blinked his eyes. The world was blurry and his head ached. As he continued to blink his eyes, hoping to stop his head from spinning and the world to clear, Dexter searched his memory and tried to recall the events that had lead him here. His memory was fuzzy for a moment before it all started coming back. He tried to move his limbs and they encountered resistance. Trying to adjust his posture, his position became clear all too easily: he was bound, sitting in a chair.

His eyes began to come into focus on a black figure. Manuel, the other man had called him.

He was staring at Dexter. "Ah, good, you're back with us," Manuel snarled.

Groggy, his thoughts still fuzzy, Dexter did not reply.

"I don't have much time. So you're going to tell me who you are and what you know, or my friend you met earlier, who is currently disposing of one body, will have to come back and dispose of another."

Dexter shook his head into focus and looked Manuel in the eye. Manuel grinned menacingly. "Start talking."

"I don't....I don't know anything," Dexter mumbled, his mind still too scattered to form an escape plan, but knowing that feigning innocence was probably a good start.

"Don't lie," Manuel hissed, moving closer. "Why did you come in this room?"

Dexter wondered Manuel, Rodrigo, and formerly Garcia, were up to. If he had to guess, he'd have to guess it some connection to a drug cartel, but that was hardly the pressing matter at the moment.

"I'm staying in the room next door," he lied, "I heard noises...the door was unlocked."

"Stop. LYING." Manuel's hands came down to grip his throat. "You're wearing gloves and you tried to stab me!"

Dexter couldn't think of anything to say. He had tried to stab Manuel; how foolish. He hadn't counted on Rodrigo returning so soon, the door being unlocked...He hadn't planned ahead at all: he had just reacted rashly at the promise of new blood.

"ANSWER ME!" Manuel shouted, his hold on Dexter's throat tightening, constraining his airflow.

"I have no idea who you are..." Dexter sputtered out, as no ideas came to him.

"WHO ARE YOU?" Manuel yelled again, once more strengthening his grip.

Dexter felt the weight of the other man's hand pressing down upon his trachea. Breaths were getting harder and harder to take. Strangulation wasn't an easy way to kill a man; but there was practice in this man's grip. Dexter knew he would be unconscious soon, if not dead soon after.

He couldn't die like this. One simple mistake couldn't end it all. There would be no one to meet the kids after school...Astor and Cody would lose a parent for a third time...Harrison would be an orphan....He had to be there, had to make it home to them...he couldn't die here....

"WHO ARE YOU?" Manuel continued to growl, the pressure of his hand firm and unwavering.

It was very difficult to speak, but Dexter's lips opened of their own accord. "A...a father," he gasped out, his words barely audible and a surprise to even himself. "I'm a father."

The pressure on his throat ceased. Dexter was bent over with relief, panting for air for nearly a minute before he thought to wonder about why Manuel had ceased his efforts.

He looked up swiftly. Manuel was laughing, doubled over, nearly in hysterics.

When he noticed he had Dexter's attention once again, Manuel spoke, cackling. "A father! A man tries to kill me and when I ask him who he is, he says a FATHER!"

Dexter wiggled slightly, testing himself against the bonds that held him. They weren't very secure: if Manuel remained distracted and he had enough time, he could break free of them. He squirmed slightly, trying to make progress at loosening the rope.

At the sign of movement, Manuel's maniacal laughter stopped cold. In one swift motion, Manuel had drawn the pistol from his belt and pointed it smoothly at the center of Dexter's chest.

"You're not going anywhere," he said, his accent thick and his tone deadly.

Dexter froze in his seat. He met Manuel's eyes. Time seemed to slow and he could see Manuel's finger moving toward the trigger....

"House keeping...OH MY GOD!"

Once again, an instant changed everything. A mop fell to the floor as a teenage girl stood frozen to the spot in the doorway. Once again, he hadn't locked the door. This time, it was in Dexter's favor.

Manuel stood in place for only a moment, before running out the door, as quickly possibly, nearly knocking over the girl in the process.

Dexter stared in disbelief as he watched him go. A stupid mistake had landed him here and a stupid mistake would set him free.

 

Half an hour later, Dexter had managed to convince the petrified housekeeper to untie him and had told her a couple of moderately convincing lies about how he had ended up there before making his quick exit while she called the police. Safe in his car and a couple miles down the road, he breathed a big sigh of relief.

He would be able to pick up the kids. He would be there for them, once again, to help them with their homework, to fix them dinner, to make sure the boys were tucked into bed and Astor wasn't texting under the sheets...

In that moment, when his life could have been extinguished in an instant, he was a father. Blood pattern analyst, sociopath, serial killer...underneath it all, none of those things were the most important. Dexter just couldn't believe it took this, took a near-death experience to realize that. That he would have to be careful from now on. That when wanting to make those impulse kills, he had to consider the possible consequences. That there was something bigger now, than either him or his dark passenger.

He thought back to the drawing Harrison had made that morning. Dexter smiled. He was a father. Above all else.


End file.
